


A Quiet Drink

by LucyLovecraft



Category: Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword (1999), Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: Banter, Bar Room Brawl, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Offscreen OT3, One Shot, The Barmaid Is One of Us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyLovecraft/pseuds/LucyLovecraft
Summary: Jan wanted a quiet evening and a quiet drink. Jan does not always get what he wants. Indeed, it seems like the particular banes of Jan's existence are people in taverns spilling wine all over the place and Jurko Bohun, not necessarily in that order.





	A Quiet Drink

**Author's Note:**

> This is a good-time fic, because all the multichapter things I’m working on are dark. Canon-divergent timeline like crazy, because it’s a prompt and you can’t stop me. If you can figure out what timeline this is in, you let me know.
> 
> Also, as ever, all tavern girls and/or barmaids in the OiM universe are #OneOfUs, because that is very much movie!canon. I take it to the point of slight anachronism, which I do not regret.
> 
> The unofficial official soundtrack to this is ["Bad Things" by Jace Everett](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOnb_rYejOc), which I likewise do not regret.
> 
> Thanks to Tumblr users meadowlarkx for the prompt, to witchindeed for giving me plausible names for randos, and to bachaboska for context on Polish nobility. ankalime's glorious art gave me inspiration for one particularly fun scene. In short: I love everyone in this bar.

Jan pushed open the door and stepped into the comfortable scents of spilled wine, wet wool, smoke, and savoury cooking. As the patrons turned to see who’d entered, he recognised many a noble face. Men nodded or raised their drinks to him, smiling and shouting out his name.  
  
“A good evening to you, gentlemen!” he called, keeping his voice light.  
  
A chorus of cheerful cries returned the greeting, and Jan bowed his head in acknowledgement.

The barmaid came up to him, dimpling prettily as she indicated (quite unnecessarily) an open table. As Jan moved forward to follow her, the light fell on a man standing behind him who had hitherto been shrouded in the night’s gloom.  
  
Jurko Bohun stood there, dark in the doorway. He entered and bowed in Cossack fashion, his saturnine face composed in a mask of bland civility that might have been convincing were it not for his eyes.  
  
“And a good evening to the company,” he said softly, perfectly audible in the suddenly hushed room.

It was at this point that Jan Skreztuski began to question his decisions.  
  
Bohun strode in like a wolf walking into the hunting kennel, and with much the same effect: backs stiffened, hands twitched toward sword hilts, and a discontented, murmuring growl replaced the earlier, merry brabble.  
  
The only person who did not seem overly distressed was the barmaid, who sat both Jan and Bohun at their table. She was, perhaps, a little disquieted by Bohun’s reception, but not enough to dim her smile, which she lavished on them equally like an anacreontic angel.  
  
“You look as though you’ve had the long, weary journey of it, sirs,” she said, brushing a smear of mud from Jan’s shoulder. “May I fetch your honours something? A bottle of wine to wash away the cares of travel?”  
  
“We have indeed had a hard journey,” Jan said, smiling up at her, “but all our weariness is forgotten now we’re in such good hands. A bottle of wine would be most welcome.”  
  
The girl beamed like the sun, then turned her bright eyes on Bohun.  
  
Bohun had the fine, high-colour that came from riding through the chill steppe winds, making his dark features glow. For a moment, both Jan and the barmaid looked on him with similar expressions of abstracted satisfaction.  
  
“And you, sir?” the girl asked Bohun, sparkling with solicitude.  
  
But Bohun had his hackles up, and was in no mood to be charmed or charming.  
  
“Wine,” he said brusquely. “It is why we’re here.”  
  
A little crestfallen, the girl nevertheless gathered herself for a final sally: “And perhaps something to eat? We’ve a lovely brace of partridge in.”  
  
“Yes, certainly,” Bohun said, with such a disinterested air that the barmaid looked both shocked and deeply offended.  
  
She sniffed, shot Jan a reproachful look as if to say, “And this is the company you keep?”, curtsied, and left them.  
  
Jan watched her disappearing form, preferring to focus on familiar pleasures rather than the tense, watchful air of the inn.  
  
The girl returned from behind the counter, bottle in hand, now focusing all her warmth on Jan.

He smiled at her as she poured, and the dimples returned again. Jan could not help noticing that she was very pretty; certainly no comparison to Helena’s radiant beauty, but attractive company was always pleasant.  
  
As the barmaid retreated, Jan glared reproachfully at his companion.

 _Attractive company was even more pleasant,_ Jan thought, _when the attractive company was not trying to begin a brawl with twelve different nobles at once._  
  
“I don’t believe they like me,” Bohun said, gazing about. He was not helping the situation: the expression on his face could never have been described as anything but insolent, and he held the eyes of all who stared at him until they turned away.  
  
The murmur of voices in the tavern had taken on an ominous, dissatisfied tone.  
  
“I wanted to enjoy one drink in a place that doesn’t smell like a pig sty,” Jan said through gritted teeth. “Just one drink. You agreed.”  
  
When Bohun continued staring down the watching nobility, Jan kicked him discreetly under the table.  
  
Bohun scowled.  
  
“Let me have my drink in peace!” Jan hissed. “You swore you would not start anything.”  
  
“I haven’t.”  
  
“You are hardly laying yourself out to be agreeable.”  
  
“I was very polite,” Bohun said.  
  
“True: I have never seen anyone make a general offer to engage in mutual murder with such civility in my life.”  
  
The Cossack did not actually smirk, but Jan did contemplate kicking him again.  
  
“You swore you would let me have my drink in peace,” Jan reminded him.  
  
“You never specified what might happen after the drink.”  
  
“I had _very_ clear plans for later,” Jan said significantly, falling back on a tried and tested tactic.  
  
Bohun coughed and shifted in his chair.  
  
“Will you behave?” Jan asked, moving his leg so it pressed warm against Bohun’s under the table.  
  
“Yes.” The reply was somewhat hoarse.  
  
“Thank you,” said Jan.  
  
Jan took a sip of his wine, still holding Bohun’s gaze. He sat up straight and tall, chin up, arching his neck a little so the light fell on a faint, lingering lovebite that showed just above his collar. When he put the glass down on the table, Bohun was decidedly not staring at any other nobleman there present.  
  
Jan grinned and raised his glass in salute.  
  
“There,” he said triumphantly. “I know you have pretty manners when you wish to.”  
  
Bohun muttered something that sounded like, “I’ll show you pretty”, but raised his glass in answer. When he’d drunk the toast, he put the wine down and regarded it with a satisfied nod.  
  
“Better than _horilka_?” Jan inquired.  
  
“I have had better, but I have also decidedly had worse. It almost makes up for the company.”  
  
“Not fond of the company?” said a slurring voice.  
  
With regret, Jan saw the blaze of eagerness in Bohun’s eyes as he looked up at the stranger. Without moving, the Cossack somehow gave the impression of almost twitching with delight.  
  
“I don’t believe we’ve met, sir,” Jan said quickly. “I am Jan Skrzetuski. And my companion is—”  
  
“Jurko Bohun,” the other man interrupted, making the name a sneer.  
  
“Do we know one another?” Bohun asked, positively _radiating_ willing hostility.  
  
_Had he a tail,_ Jan thought, _he’d be swishing it like a cat. Damn the man._  
  
But the newcomer did not look at Bohun. Instead, he turned his florid face to Jan.

Bohun’s expression was such a ludicrous mirror of the barmaid’s earlier rebuffed dismay that for one insane instant Jan nearly laughed.  
  
“Andrzej Borowiec,” the man said. “A nobleman of Krzczonów.”  
  
“And do you have some business with me?” Jan asked, eyebrows raised. He had not wanted to start a fight. He had wanted a drink and to retire somewhere discreet to reward and punish Bohun for his behaviour in equal measure. But if God saw fit so send him a fight, Jan Skrzetuski could hardly refuse the gift.  
  
“You have clearly shown what kind of company you prefer to keep. You should have found a damned pothouse to drink in rather than show your face in our company.”  
  
_Oh Christ,_ Jan thought, even as he felt his temper flare. _God witness: I just wanted a drink._  
  
“And who are you, sir,” Jan asked, “to question what I may or may not do?”  
  
“One who knows the worth of his own noble blood.”  
  
“You dare much to imply that I do not.” Jan was vaguely conscious of the eyes watching him, most of all the fury and wounded pride in Bohun’s. But, by some miracle, the man was not interfering—yet.  
  
Borowiec turned an inebriated sway into deliberate affront by planting his hand on their table, knocking over Jan’s glass, saying, “I need not imply what is clear for all to see: if you were a true nobleman, you would not bring Cossack dogs like this one in to a place for gentlemen. And maybe you are no true nobleman after all, if you break bread with rebels.”  
  
That was too much for any man to bear. Jan leapt to his feet.  
  
“Do you question my birth, sir?” He’d known this could turn ugly, but he had not imagined just how ugly. The entire tavern had fallen silent, and if no one else rose to stand beside Borowiec, neither did they stand to support Jan. This Pan Borowiec might be a drunken lout, but he was only voicing what many there thought. Jan’s blood had turned to acid and gunpowder, but even still he tried to hold his temper in check.

“Your actions show you have no place here, nor a right to call yourself a nobleman,” Borowiec spat. _“Res ipsa loquitur_ ; why should I question what is plain to all?”  
  
“You are drunk,” Jan said, calling upon all his powers of self-control and propriety in an attempt to hold back the rising tide of bitter rage within him. This fight was beneath him, but the insult had already gone far beyond any question of honour: there must be blood.  
  
“Making excuses, are you? Too much of a coward to face a real nobleman in a fair fight?”  
  
“I am an officer in Prince Jeremi’s service,” Jan said, clinging to his last shred of calm. “Do you publicly question my birth and my bravery in the same breath?”  
  
“I—”  
  
But Borowiec’s look of belligerent ill-will was more than sufficient provocation. Jan did not need to let him finish. With a cry, Jan drew his sword and brought the hilt down hard on Borowiec’s head. The room filled with shouts and the sounds of chairs and tables crashing to the floor.  
  
The drunk nobleman staggered. Jan struck again, teeth bared, putting all his fury and outrage behind the blow.  
  
Borowiec let out a groan like a falling tree, crashing to the floor with an impact that rattled the bottles on the tables.  
  
Breathing hard, Jan grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him across the floor like a beaten dog. He kicked open the door and took Borowiec with him, followed by as many of the tavern’s patrons as could squeeze through the door at once.  
  
Jan threw the man from him. Borowiec sprawled in the snow, muttering disjointed curses. Seizing him by the hair and forcing the man’s glazed eyes to look at him, Jan asked: “Do you withdraw your insult?”  
  
Borowiec mumbled something which, though unclear, was certainly no kind of surrender.  
  
Jan let out a huff of frustration. This was no duel. It would be as much a dishonour to serve Borowiec as he deserved as it would be to let the insult stand.  
  
“You questioned what is beyond question,” Jan said, more for the benefit of the onlookers than for Borowiec. “But as I am a gentleman and a knight, I will not beat you like the drunken lout you are.”  
  
Inspiration struck.  
  
“You have said that there is no place in this establishment for men of ill-breeding. So I will find you an accommodation more suitable to your manners.”  
  
Gritting his teeth, Jan let rage lend him all the strength he needed. Lifting Borowiec bodily from the ground, he carried him past the speechlessly watching nobles, across the courtyard, and up to the stable door.  
  
A panicked ostler rushed to meet him, wringing his hands.  
  
“Please, your honour, I beg you to—”  
  
“Open that door!” Jan said, cutting across him in a tone that brooked no argument.  
  
Mute and appalled, the man jumped to obey.  
  
Jan bore Borowiec into the musty darkness, taking care to let the man’s front drag all along the not-entirely-spotless stable floor. The voices of the noblemen who trailed in his wake had taken on a different note: many were as drunk as Borowiec, if not drunker, and the tense little scene in the tavern was now proving to be better entertainment than they’d expected. Some even seemed rather pleased. There was certainly a hint of amusement some of the murmurings as Jan strode down the rows of stalls until he found what he was looking for.  
  
With a final effort Jan threw Borowiec headfirst in to one dim stall, provoking outraged brays from its occupants.  
  
Striding in, Jan reached for a collar that hung by the entrance and brought it down over Borowiec’s head and shoulders.  
  
“There,” Jan said loudly, looking on his handiwork with pride.  
  
Borowiec sat in a belligerent stupor, scowling up at Jan with glazed eyes, the collar pinning his arms to his sides. A pair of resentful donkeys stared at the newcomers with obvious ill-intent, ears back.  
  
“I,” Jan told the man, “will now return to enjoy a drink among my noble peers. You, however, shall remain here in good company: a notable ass among asses.”  
  
Turning on his heel, Jan left Borowiec, acknowledging both bibulous cheers and hostile remarks with the same, clench-jawed nod. Bohun was there, of course, and the man had the temerity to actually look _pleased_ , as though the whole thing could not have gone better.  
  
Stumping back to the tavern, Jan crossed the room, pulled out his chair, sat down heavily. He poured himself a full glass of wine and drank it off like a peasant swilling rotgut.  
  
“Not very genteel,” a Ruthenian-accented voice said.  
  
Jan ignored Bohun and poured another glass.  
  
Former spectators were filing back in to the inn, some still muttering darkly, but others apparently satisfied enough with the evening’s entertainment that a few were inspired to call out congratulations to him.  
  
Bohun slid into his seat.  
  
“I liked that,” the Cossack said. “I had it in mind to resent you for arrogating the whole fight to yourself when he’d done my own honour such injury, but I liked what you did.”  
  
“Of course you liked it. You provoked it.”  
  
“This was your idea,” Bohun reminded him unhelpfully. “I didn’t want to come here.”  
  
“So it was. More fool I,” Jan said, pouring himself another glass. “A fool twice and thrice over.”  
  
“What?” Bohun scoffed. “You can’t possibly feel regret for that, can you?”  
  
“No, never that: he deserved worse. But I will hear more of this hereafter from others like him.” He sighed. “What will people think?”  
  
“Who cares what they think?” the Cossack said. It was a statement of such staggering hypocrisy that, had the man not still been giddy with violence, Jan doubted he could have even uttered it. Even so, Bohun himself seemed to awaken to some sense of this, because he said no more but merely watched as Jan drank with a steady deliberation. As the tide of wine flowed out, so did much of the Cossack’s reckless elation.  
  
“Jan?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Forget him.”  
  
Jan sighed.  
  
“He was no one, Jan. I’d never heard of him before, had you? Just a drunk whose claim to you _lach_ ’s vaunted noble birth was likely so tenuous that your bringing me here threatened his whole little world.”  
  
“Easy for you to say. You aren’t a part of that ‘little world’,” Jan replied, and felt a discreditable sense of satisfaction as Bohun sat straighter in his chair. But he regretted it at once when he saw the hurt that flickered across Bohun’s face just before anger kindled. Quickly, he put out a hand to touch Bohun’s, saying: “I mean, they can’t take your glorious Cossack fame from you. You have your reputation.”  
  
“‘Cossack dog’ is hardly glory,” Bohun replied, taking the bottle from Jan’s other hand to pour himself a glass. He stared into its red depths. “He didn’t even bother to talk to me. Like I really was a dog.”  
  
“But now he knows better.”  
  
“ _You_ taught him better. _I_ should go back into that stable right now; then we’d see who howls.”  
  
“I almost wish you would,” Jan said darkly.  
  
Both of them fell into a glum silence.  
  
It was still easy for Bohun, Jan thought: the man had his reputation, and it was unassailable. Bohun was known as a madman, and his fame was built on defiant insanities. Jan’s reputation was still bound up with Jeremi’s, but most of all it was grounded on his own standing amongst his peers. Unlike Bohun, he had not started with nothing. Jan had far more to lose and far, far further to fall. They might not take his title from him, but even so Jan’s good name could be reduced to mere ink on parchment.  
  
The barmaid brought out their pheasants. They picked at the food mechanically. Yet both had been soldiers for too long to ever be entirely indifferent to their food and, to the credit of the house, they were in fact fine, plump birds.  
  
At last Jan pushed his plate away, feeling that if the good food had not quite restored his spirits, it had effected a reasonable facsimile of doing so. And, looking at Bohun’s rather quiet, inward-looking expression, it appeared that the same benign transformation had changed the Cossack’s mood as well.  
  
“You’re right, of course,” Jan said, as though they had not been sitting in silence. “He’s no one. The men whose opinions matter would know that it makes no difference.”  
  
“That your spending time in my company cannot tarnish your reputation, you mean?”  
  
With regret, Jan saw that he’d misjudged Bohun’s silence: the contemplative expression lost its inward focus and, once directed outwards, it revealed itself to be a brooding bitterness.  
  
Jan put out his hand, taking Bohun’s. “You know that’s not how I see it at all.”  
  
“That’s how they will see it.” He did not pull his hand from Jan’s, but neither did he hold it.  
  
Yet Jan could not argue with that, not when it was true.  
  
“Who cares what they think?” Jan quoted dully, oppressed by the impossibility of the sentiment.  
  
Bohun nodded, then said: “I did not try to fight him because I know it would harm your reputation—that here, it was your honour that mattered. So I did not fight him.”  
  
“Borowiec?”  
  
“Yes. But now I wish I had.”  
  
The words had such regret in them, and Bohun looked so very dejected to not have murdered the fat drunkard, and the sentiment was so mad yet bizarrely thoughtful that Jan’s confused feelings could find no expression but laughter—a somewhat pale imitation of his usual laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.  
  
Jan’s reputation might suffer—no, it certainly _would_ suffer—but he had made his choice, or had it made for him by his heart. Every happiness was bought with some sorrow, but how else might one measure the true worth of what one had gained?

Did he regret that he was no longer a spotless paragon of noble chivalry? Of course he did, and felt the loss keenly.

But (even assuming Helena would let him) would he ever give up Bohun to have his irreproachable reputation back? He did not even need to give the question a moment’s thought, so swiftly did the answer come: no, _never_.  
  
And that surety brought comfort.  
  
“Oh for God’s sake,” Jan cried, disgusted with his own melancholia, “we knew scenes like this were a risk and a certain misery, and so it has proved. But I refuse to let misery be uppermost at all times. Have I not stabled the man with an ass’ collar around his head? And will we not now go back to our own quiet quarters?”  
  
Bohun’s lips twitched. He was resisting Jan’s attempts at lightening the mood, but Jan’s smile was having its usual effect. And, as ever, the comic attempt at resistance had its usual effect on Jan.  
  
“Jurko,” Jan said slowly. He half rose so he could lean across the table to speak in the Cossack’s ear. He lay a hand on Bohun’s shoulder, resting it so his thumb lay ever-so-casually against the exposed skin of the man’s neck. “I have made my bed and must lie in it, but I should be grateful if you would join me.”  
  
Bohun made a disgusted noise but lost his battle against an answering smile.  
  
“You will break that wench’s heart,” Bohun murmured, cocking an eyebrow at the serving girl, who was watching them closely.  
  
Jan turned his head to look at her. He was still bent forward close enough to Bohun that they might have kissed. Instead, he trailed one finger along the Cossack’s jawline, enjoying the hitch in Bohun’s breath and the way his head tilted back under his touch.

The barmaid gawped at him like a carp.

Jan winked.

She stood like a statue for a moment, then turned bright red. And then she pressed a hand to her mouth to cover what was very clearly some species of giggle, eyes sparkling with fun.  
  
“I think she will survive,” Jan said. “We shall leave her an excellent tip and fond memories.”  
  
“At least someone in this place will remember us kindly,” Bohun grumbled.  
  
“Shall we go?”  
  
“Might we perhaps burn the stable down first?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then by all means, let us go.”

They rose.

The barmaid hurried forward, opening the door for them with a very knowing smile.

Jan could see Bohun meditating on some parting salvo and so gave him a well-timed shove that sent him through the door at a stumble. He would be furious, Jan knew, but they were already headed back to their inn; he would be more than willing to give Bohun his revenge in private.

Jan turned to address the watching tavern patrons.

“God give you a good evening, gentlemen,” he said, raising a hand in salute. And, with a quick, courtly bow to the barmaid, Jan Skrzetuski strode out into the night.

Bohun was waiting for him. Jan could see his eyes flash as tavern door closed behind them, leaving them in the dark.

Only then did Jan allow himself a satisfied smirk.

Bohun was indeed furious. Yet though he did make his point vigorously and at length, Jan did not mind at all.


End file.
